September 26: My Son Again, Terry Godbey, "Eight Years Old"

I promise this will be the last post about my son.  You're all probably getting tired of my sentimental musings.  When birthdays and weddings and anniversaries come around, it gets me all maudlin and reflective.  Can't help it.

I'm also pretty darn tired.  It's been a very long week.  And, when I'm this tired, I'm prone to watching movies like It's a Wonderful Life or Stand By Me and crying like a schoolgirl.  I'll snap out of it in a day or so.  But, for tonight, I'm going to wallow a little bit.

Terry Godbey knows what I'm talking about.  The poems she writes about her son are full of the surprise and ache of parenting.  One day, your child is small, weak, and beautiful.  Before you know it, your child is tall, independent, and beautiful.  It happens so fast.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down a little.

Eight Years Old

by:  Terry Godbey

Even in winter, my son refuses to wear
a pajama top.  When he comes near,
I lean close and brush his skin
or stroke it outright
like bolts of wedding satin,
and something catches in my throat
like undissolved chocolate
in a cup of cocoa.  He is lush,
toes pink and curled
as the pearly hearts of seashells,
voice lifting and plunging,
a heron diving for fish,
his pogo-stick stride,
arms like clock hands gone wild,
the balloons of his cheeks when he grins,
and on his restless legs, faint hairs
pointing in all directions
as if ruffled by wind,
a great storm on the way.

Hold on just a little bit longer...

October 1: Curtis Weintraub, My Son Again, Giving Thanks

"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said.  "Wanna see?"  She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.

Holden's sister, Phoebe, is in elementary school, and this kid, Curtis Weintraub, is making a nuisance of himself.  Phoebe thinks Curtis hates her.  Holden tells her that Curtis "probably likes you."  Phoebe doesn't care for that idea too much.

When my daughter was in kindergarten, she didn't have Curtis Weintraub troubles.  She didn't get pushed or shoved on the playground.  She was friends with everybody.  She still is, and she's a seventh grader now.

In his first month of kindergarten, my son has gotten into more trouble than my daughter got into during her entire elementary school career.  This week, I'm trying something new.  Instead of worrying all day, expecting a phone call from the principal any minute, I'm saying a little prayer (something like "Please watch over him, God"), and then I'm letting him go.  It's difficult, and I've failed a few times.  But God gave me a present this afternoon.

When I asked my son how school was today, he looked at me and smiled.  "I got blue today," he said.

Behavior is measured by colors in his class.  The bad scale goes from yellow (I was a little bad) to orange (I nearly caused bodily harm to someone) to red (the teacher had to call in the S.W.A.T. team).  The good scale goes from green (I didn't eat the glue stick) to blue (I didn't eat my neighbor's glue stick) to pink (I let my neighbor use my glue stick) to purple (I used my glue stick to create a Popsicle-stick model of the Vatican).

My son didn't eat his neighbor's glue stick.  And that's better than he's done since the beginning of the school year.  God watched over him today, and I want to thank Him.

Dear God,

Thanks for having my son's back today.  You know he's been struggling for a while.  But today, he got blue.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I know You've always had my son's back.   You just reminded me of that fact today.  So, thanks for the little lesson in faith and trust, as well.  I think I needed Your help as much as my son did.

God, You rock.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

My son didn't do this today